Alone
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: "'How does it feel?" Lucifer begins, smirking. 'To be all alone?" But Sam knows he's wrong. He's never been alone in life.'" *one-shot, hurt!Sam*


_** Author's Note: **__I've been feeling pretty stressed lately and whenever I'm stressed, writing always helps calm me. Written for anyone who has ever felt overwhelmed with exams, school, work, or whatever is going on in life. Everything will work out! Just hang in there. Please enjoy!_

* * *

"_I used to think that I was strong_

_Until the day it all went wrong_

_I think I need a miracle to make it through."_

—_Simple Plan, "Perfect World"_

* * *

Sam Winchester has always excelled in school.

Tests, homework, papers—anything and everything to do with academics—he can handle without breaking a sweat. School is a relief, a sanctuary protected from the stress and the worries that hunting brought on. Sure, maybe he couldn't shoot as well as Dean and maybe he couldn't exactly remember how exactly to clean the guns as well as his father, but whenever he walked through the doors of his middle school, the pathetic loser of a hunter faded away and was replaced by the calm assurance that he was in the zone. He studies hard and earns "A's" on his exams. He does his homework and turns it in on time; early if he knew John would be taking his out of school that week. School was his domain and here, he ruled. And sure, maybe he didn't have too many friends, but whether that was because he was a "nerd" and thereby was avoided by the plague or because they never stayed long enough for him to make friends still remained to be seen.

School is his sanctuary.

"Got that research done yet?" His father stands before him, leaning against the wall. John's eyes focus in on the textbook lying on his son's desk. Immediately, the youngest Winchester pushes the book aside and ducks his gaze down, ashamed. John sighs, disappointment evident and Sam flushes. He knows better than this; he knows what is expected of him.

He's a son of a hunter. His destiny is to follow in his father's footprints, just like his older brother longed to do so. The family business, that's what they called it. People at school would smile at him when he would say that. They'd tell him he was lucky to have something like that to fall back on in case his plans for the future didn't plan out. Sam would fake a smile and then change the conversation.

No one ever asked him what he wanted to do with his life.

"No, sir." His voice is barely a whisper and cowardly, he avoids John's gaze.

"Just get it done by tonight." Sam nods; John's footsteps echo down the hall, but he hesitates. Softly, he adds, "Please, Sam."

"Yes, sir."

Sam doesn't hate his father. He loves him, though he understands why his father would be disappointed. He was trying to become someone different, someone that didn't have to hunt down monsters. In John's eyes, that must've been a travesty. There was no point in explaining his wish to become someone "normal" to his neither his father nor Dean. They wouldn't understand.

No one ever understood.

"Story of my life." He mumbles darkly, chuckling mirthlessly.

Then, he begins to research the best ways to stop a rampaging fairy.

* * *

The first time he has a panic attack is when he's 14 years old.

He's in finals week of his first year of high school, an already stressful time of year for any student, but add to that the research he's doing for Dean's solo hunt for a poltergeist and the translations he said he would do for Bobby and he feels like he's drowning. He hasn't had time to just decompress and just be a teenager. He can't go out because he's needed at home and even if he could, he has no friends to hang out with. He has Dean and if he were to ask, he's sure his older brother would help him have fun for a night, but his older brother is so excited to go on this hunt—he gets to lead this one—and Sam doesn't have the heart to deny him anything.

So, he keeps pushing himself.

It's when he's solving for the third side of a right triangle that his arm tingles. Confused, he puts down his pencil and flexes his fingers experimentally. The tingle increases and he places his palms to his forehead, wondering if he has a fever. Dimly, he realizes his palms are sweaty.

"What?" He breathes as his eyes scan the page. The numbers blur before him and the triangle seems to spin around on the page. His chest tightens and a shot of panic runs through him. He can't breathe and suddenly, he's gasping and the teacher is asking him a question but it's lost in the roar that seems to be engulfing his ears. His vision fades and blissfully, he lets go.

* * *

When he comes to in the nurse's office ten minutes later, he assures everyone he's fine and that no, there is no need to take him to a hospital or call his father or brother. The nurse eyes him skeptically, but he escapes out of the office before she can take any actions against him.

"How was school?" Dean questions as he returns home that day.

"Fine." At his brusque tone, his older brother appears to want to question him more, but he drops it.

"Dad said we're leaving tomorrow." Sam stops, midway down the hall.

"So soon?" He was promised two more weeks, enough time to start AP Lang.

"Yeah." Careful green eyes scan him and the youngest Winchester just shrugs. "You okay?"

"Yep."

He doesn't have the energy to be upset.

Sam sighs and just heads down the hall to his room and lets himself rest upon the bed.

"Just five minutes." He whispers as his eyes slide close.

He sleeps until the next morning.

* * *

Dean helps, the best he can.

He always manages to pick up boxes of teas from seemingly nowhere and leaves them in Sam's plain sight. Books about breathing techniques and stress management appear from seemingly thin air. Sam is bemused, to say the least, but he lets it go. He drinks the tea and reads the books—not because they help—but because it will make Dean feel better. His older brother is worried, that much Sam can tell.

"Do you want to go see a doctor or something?" His older brother asks him one day, out of the blue as they eat breakfast the morning before they leave on yet another hunt. His pancakes are drenched in syrup and the sugar hangs on his tongue as he faces his brother, perplexed.

"What?" He echoes.

"For your attacks," Dean states. "Cause I could tell Dad and—"

"Dad will tell me to get over it." Sam mumbles, discouraged.

"Then, I'll take you." A warm hand rests on his Sam's shoulder and the youngest Winchester smiles. His brother is willing to go against his father for Sam. It means the world to him, but Sam knows it's too much of a risk for their family. The doctor would see his scars and call CPS and then they would be screwed.

"I can handle it." He answers softly, a grin tugging on his lips.

"Just . . ." Dean hesitates, unsure of whether he wants to say this. "Just remember that you're not alone in this, all right?"

Sam beams.

"Thanks, Dean."

* * *

A few years later, he finds himself on a deserted bus stop with a shaky hand holding his acceptance letter to Stanford and a duffel with his few possessions in the other.

He's all alone.

* * *

When he leaves for Stanford, he expects the panic attacks to stop.

He doesn't count on the fact that he suffers immense stress from leaving his only family members, from the silence that lingered now, from the way Dean stood and said nothing, as John practically disowned his little brother.

Jess helps a lot more than she realizes.

There's something about her soothing smile and happy expression that comforts him. The way she has a spring in her step as she tells him all about this new book she's reading or a how she aced her test. The soft way she hums under her breath when she's positive that no one is around to hear her. The way her eyes sparkle whenever he leans in to kiss her—all these things and more give him the strength to keep powering through the endless law books and tests and professors who act more like executioners than wise leaders.

Whenever he gets stressed—whenever he's on the verge of an attack or in the grips of one—Jess is there, always there, soothing and wanting to help. She stays by his side and tells him that she won't leave him and God help him, he believes her. Despite his life full of partings, he wants to believe that she'll stay.

"See?" She tells him after the attack subsides, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "All better."

He isn't—probably won't be until he makes his peace with his brother and father—but having Jess by his side gives him the strength to pull through.

"All better." He echoes, smiling.

* * *

His attacks get worse when the dreams start.

Seeing Jess burn to death on the ceiling every night isn't exactly calming and he's thinking about calling his brother when Jess hauls him to the campus doctor. Sam gets medicines and breathing exercises and they help, but he still worries.

He doesn't think he can handle losing someone else.

* * *

"I'm sorry." Dean tells him.

Sam isn't sure whether he's apologizing for taking him on the hunt in the first place, for saying nothing the night he left for Stanford, or for the fact that Jessica is dead. In the end, it doesn't matter. His girlfriend—the woman he had been ready to propose to—is nothing more than ashes and he is responsible. He could've done something, Sam's sure, but he'd lied to himself and pushed his hunter instincts away and now it is too late. He's lost last trace of normal he had.

His life here—being a lawyer, having a loving wife, living in a nice house—it's gone forever.

"I know." Sam returns, tone devoid of emotion.

Dean seems like he wants to say something else, but he decides better of it. Shaking his head, he moves toward the bathroom door. They're back in a motel room—funny, Sam had been so sure he was done staying in these kind of places—and are waiting for the fire department to give the all clear to head back into the apartment. Not that there will be anything left, of course.

The air becomes thinner. He can feel his heartbeat race, but Sam doesn't care. Let the attack finish the job, he thinks. He would've gladly died in that fire because she had been right—it was his fault. He knew that. He would have to live with that.

His body lets out a shudder as his knees buckle.

"Sammy?" Dean's eyes are widening in concern now and he's suddenly there, gripping Sam's elbow and practically drags him to the bed. Concerned green eyes scan him over and recognition flares. "Is this a panic attack?"

Sam's attempt at a reply is nothing more than a wheeze.

"Okay, okay," His older brother soothes, kneeling so that they're on the same level. "Just try to breathe with me, Sam, okay?" Dean sets a slow and even breathing pattern. "In and out, all right?"

Sam tries but it feels like the walls are closing in on him and fuck, he's killed Jess, hasn't he and what was he going to do with his life now and how could he even think about breathing when Jessica could not—

His vision begins to blur.

"Sam!" His brother snaps, voice rough with worry. "Stay with me, okay?" He moves hand to rest right over his brother's steady heartbeat. "Focus on me. Breathe with me."

And slowly but surely, Sam does.

The attack ends.

The tears begin after that, but even through the grief, a realization cuts through the haze.

Dean had been right all those years ago.

* * *

"Ah, Sammy, you and me," Lucifer chirps, beaming. "We're going to have so much fun!"

Maybe the fallen angel is right—maybe he is still in the Cage. If so, then he could accept that. Dean is alive and with Lisa. Castiel is back in Heaven and Bobby; he has to be back living his life. Sam can take comfort in all that.

"How does it feel?" Lucifer questions, smirking now. "To be all alone. Bet you feel like having one of your neat attacks." He pauses, pretending to be deep in thought. "But then again, you've been alone all your life, haven't you?" The Devil's demeanor changes to threatening. "Poor wittle Sammy, the boy no one wanted. The boy that Daddy wouldn't love and big brother left behind." He saunters closer to the youngest Winchester. "And then there's your love life. Where to start? First, there was Jessica," He begins to count on his hands. "Sarah, who you left without so much as a goodbye, and well, Madison speaks for herself, doesn't she?" He places a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You should've just killed yourself when you had the chance. This is why people leave you, why you're always alone—"

"You're wrong." Sam tells him, calmly.

"Am I?" Lucifer challenges.

"I never was alone." He replies confidently.

Lucifer fades from view and suddenly, the youngest Winchester finds himself in the basement at Bobby's; his scar bleeding.

"Sammy?" Dean begins, standing on the stairs. "You okay?"

Seeing his brother, Sam nods his head, understanding that nothing could separate the two of them—not Heaven, not Hell, not a broken wall in his head. Sure, the youngest Winchester may have thought he was alone in the world, but that hadn't been the case. He always had someone stand by his side.

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam nods his head.

"Okay, well, Bobby has something he wants to show us."

"I'm coming."

There's a glance shared between the two, one that speaks volumes but is hidden behind a code that none but the two Winchester will able to understand. Dean shoots his brother a grin and they head back up the stairs.

Together.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__If you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you thought. Thanks! _


End file.
